


Polovtsian Dances

by checkyourthreadtension



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Atticus Finch - Freeform, Coffee, Early Mornings, Fluff, Groucho Marx - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:38:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3793573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkyourthreadtension/pseuds/checkyourthreadtension
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor was already sipping at a mug of coffee, alright. Already checking his phone with the sort of derisive look he afforded to traffic violators, mud on his shoes, and the smell of fresh tar, already typing out something on the screen one-handed.</p><p>And wearing <i>glasses</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polovtsian Dances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [internet stranger](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=internet+stranger).



> Someone asked me, essentially, for a Connor-wearing-glasses-and-being-a-total-grump-about-it-but-Oliver-actually-loves-it fic. Man I am so not used to fluff (fluffing?). Whoever you are, Internet stranger, I hope you like this!
> 
> I still hate naming fics. You get what's on iTunes again! https://youtu.be/QWU1uj9WmOM

_But the coffee maker timer’s supposed to be set for 6:45._

Oliver squinted at the digits on the alarm clock. 6:00. And yet there was a slight grumble in the kitchen; the percolator was grumbling and hissing earlier than it ought to have been. “Con, the coffee maker’s acting up again,” he yawned and reached over to nudge Connor awake—only for his hand to find nothing but a pillow with a fading impression of his lover’s face and mussed sheets. But Connor didn’t have coffee until _after_ his morning run. Was something wrong? Maybe it was Keating asking for the impossible again, demanding morning overtime on top of the already insane workload. _I don’t know how he manages it,_ Oliver frowned, gently peeking out the bedroom door.

Connor was already sipping at a mug of coffee, alright. Already checking his phone with the sort of derisive look he afforded to traffic violators, mud on his shoes, and the smell of fresh tar, already typing out something on the screen one-handed.

And wearing _glasses._

Oliver blinked in awe. How had Connor managed to hide _that_ from him this whole time? They weren’t the sort that were thick-rimmed like his own; they were subtle and wiry, classical, and almost elegant, if he had to put a word to it, lending Connor a particular, distinctive air—

—If only it weren’t punctured by Connor's typical early morning funk. “… swear to _god,_ ” Connor was muttering angrily under his breath. “When I pass the bar the first thing I’m going to do is litigate the _shit_ out of you for not honoring a fucking overnight shipping agreement—”

“Connor?” Oliver piped up quietly. Connor twitched, looking as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his eyes widening and his lips thinning in morbid horror. 

“Er—hey, Ollie. You’re up earlier than usual,” Connor set his coffee down, running a hand through his hair as Oliver approached—a gesture he tried to pass off as nonchalant, but screamed of self-consciousness. “What’s up?”

“I heard either the percolator going off early or the furious grumblings of _someone_ having a case of the Mondays,” Oliver smiled, as Connor hid his gaze uncomfortably, setting his phone aside and folding his arms, hands sliding into his sweater sleeves. His smile got even wider as he lifted up Connor’s chin to face him properly, with Connor practically pouting and scowling at having his little secret discovered. “You didn’t tell me you wear glasses.”

“I _don’t,_ ” Connor huffed. “I wear _contacts._ Dailies.”

“You ran out?”

Connor scowled at his phone. “I wouldn’t have, if they’d shipped the damn package when they were supposed to. I mean, come on, _overnight shipping,_ it says it right there in the name and that clearly indicates _some_ kind of terms of service breach happened here. And now thanks to them I have to go to the courthouse looking like Groucho fucking Marx.”

“I like them,” Oliver smiled. “I like you with glasses. And this is so _not_ Groucho Marx. You look really—how should I put it—classy? Distinguished?” _Incredibly smoking hot?_ He felt his heart skip a beat as he stared. 

Connor rolled his eyes, half-annoyed, but half-flustered in embarrassment all at once, blushing in the darkness of the kitchen. “Shut up. _You’re_ the adorkable one. I didn’t even pick these out; Gemma did. I ran out once while I was staying at her place a few years back and she said I had to have something for emergencies. I _never_ wear these.”

“She’s got good taste. This look totally screams Atticus Finch,” Oliver’s smile got a bit cheekier. “Very fitting for a future lawyer.”

Connor raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Right, like I’m totally an upstanding, inspiring pillar of literary fiction.”

“You’re definitely _inspiring_ a lot of ideas right now,” Oliver leaned over and murmured softly into Connor’s ear, pecking light kisses across his cheek until he reached his lips. “ _Upstanding_ ones.”

“… Guess I could keep ‘em on for a day or two,” Connor finally relaxed as Oliver’s tongue slid between his lips. “If this is what I get.”


End file.
